


The King of Nothing

by tobythefirst



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Beta Wanted, Bond is psychologically unhealthy, M/M, REALLY BADLY, Romance, Self denial, WOW ROMANCE AND ANGST HOW ORIGINAL, cars and computers, who knew
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-25 14:07:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/639660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tobythefirst/pseuds/tobythefirst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are matters which James has never understood but has always been interested in resolving.<br/>And Q is one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The King of Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I am very excited to pus this work up here. That's unusual.  
> Anyhow, critique and comments in general are welcomed! I'd love to hear your opinion and reaction on this work of fiction. Also, excuse my American English. As my old friend once said, to write like a British person, you either have to be one or know how to behave like one. Maybe my friend was wrong,  
> but to say the truth, my dear friends, I am neither of those two.

It gets really bad when 007, if given the choice between seducing the most splendid women of England and mocking Q about his sweaters, goes to Q’s branch and sits there for 10 bloody minutes. Waiting for Q. Waiting. For Q. In Q’s branch. How bloody awesome was that. 

“007?”, - Q’s sweater is ridiculously red, that is the first thing 007 notices. And…well that Q’s lips were parted when he entered the room, that’s for sure. Parted and red and extremely good looking…

“If you came here just to piss me off by staring at my sweater, it’s just ridiculous, it doesn’t work that way, you shouldn’t even be here, you probably have a mission, stop staring at this sweater, don’t you dare call it ridiculous…”

“It’s actually pretty neat,” Bond says while staring at the sweater where Q’s belly supposedly is. 007 wonders if Q’s body would feel as warm as Q looks sometimes, drinking Earl grey and narrowing his green eyes because of the steam from the tea. To be exactly honest, 007 also imagines how Q would look like if Bond were to put kisses all over his stomach, as light as summer butterflies and as passionate as 007 could ever make them. 

“You are joking again,” Q says, sitting down and turning his computer on, his cheeks slightly red. “I am not that comfortable with you around, 007, but when you try to get something from me using seduction, it gets really strange…”

“Who said I was trying to get something from you,” Bond murmurs and gets up, suddenly realizing why the bloody hell he is in Q’s branch when he is clearly not supposed to be there. 007 feels defeated even though there was no battle ( or was there?). He looks around, seeing interns coming from lunch and joking around with each other, their faces bright and hopeful. As if something has snapped in front of his face, Bond suddenly comes back to reality, where old people don’t get together with young people, and 00s agents don’t go out with their quartermasters. 

“Maybe I was just trying to seduce you. Another trophy in my room of collection. I’ll call you “The Quartermaster: one” and put you on top of the shelf”

Q doesn’t look red anymore. His brows are raised as if some puppeteer suddenly decided to dramatize the scene, and his face looks paler than usual. Bond thinks that they should switch lamps in that place because for God’s sake, everybody there looks just as if they are about to die. 

“And why “one”, if that’s okay to ask?”

“Because the others were too old for me. You surely should know how it is to prefer the young,” Bond comments and leaves, noticing Q looking at his nails and scowling. 

Perhaps, it’s not because of the lamps. 

 

Another day there are a new mission, flying cars, Q blowing up buildings, and 007 is about to die. 

It’s funny, Bond thinks as he looks up to the sky while the car next to him is slowly burning and hissing. If 007 ever got a free Sunday morning and decided to make bacon, that is how it would sound. Hissing, oil would be everywhere, making everything dirty and scary, making you feel that if you open the pan it will blind you. 007 lies there, on the grass, dirty, bloody, and thinks that he never actually got to have a nice Sunday morning. He murmurs that to Q who is in his radio, hissing in his ear just like the bacon he would make one Sunday morning. Moneypenny is used to that, she knows that Bond likes to talk about things like that when he is about to die (which happens more often than appropriate), but Q is young, callow, and ridiculous, so he is screaming in Bond’s ear at the highest pitch Bond has ever heard.

“Don’t you Bond you hear me DON’T YOU—“

“May you not shout so loudly? I am dying here.”

“Sorry, okay. WHAT. Don’t you die on me, Bond? You hear me? Don’t you dare youdon’thavethepermissionBondcanyouhearme—“

And all Q’s words become a soft whisper somewhere far away as the radio clicks and begins to burn Bond’s ear. 007 decides that it’s time to roll over and away from that car on his right that is hissing so dangerously suspicious. Bond also feels extremely lazy, exhausted, and morose. All the thoughts about bacon on Sunday morning come back, and James realizes that except for that bloody bacon he has nobody to come back to. The car sounds like a ticking clock, and James, just like Alice falling in the rabbit hole, tenses and imagines that everything is a dream. In that dream there is going to be bacon on Sunday morning, Bond thinks as he heavily gets up from the ground, moving as fast as he can with the wound on his side. In that dream, there are bacon and mornings and sun, cunningly squeezing through the shut curtains, and there is Q in Bond’s shirt, making that bloody bacon. 

The car explodes while Bond grunts with difficulty while sitting next to a fig. Sometimes, Bond reflects as he gets up, quietly moaning because of pain, sometimes, but not always, dreaming may be the only way for James to keep going. Bond lights up his cigarette and looks around, his eyes narrowed as the sun burn his face with its torrid passion. There is a black dote far away at the horizon, where waves of heat create a blurry and stunning picture of the landscape. Bond shakes the dust off his suit and begins to walk, putting on his cracked sunglasses and adjusting his gun. It will get better, Bond thinks as the echo of his steps forms a certain kind of music that sounds better than anything Bond’s ever heard before. It always gets better in the end. 

24 hours later Bond realizes that it actually doesn’t.


End file.
